


Life's a Dream in the Suburbs

by LadyAJ_13



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Domestic Bliss, Friends to Lovers, Future Fic, M/M, the world thinks they're together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 17:42:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1356163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton and Phil Coulson are just friends. Sure, it might be weird to be two middle-aged men living together in the suburbs and not be a couple, but it's the truth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life's a Dream in the Suburbs

**Author's Note:**

> So, I wrote another 'the world thinks they're together when they're not' story. I'm not sorry - it's one of my favourite tropes and the world needs more of these stories! Besides, I see Clint and Phil as being the oblivious type...

It’s not out of necessity that they live together. SHIELD pays reasonably even when you consider the danger element of the job, and Clint generally has pretty cheap tastes. He’s got enough accumulated in the bank to afford a place of his own if he wanted one; not one as nice as this, granted, but he could stretch to a mortgage on a two bed, living room and kitchen deal in an okay neighbourhood.

Somewhere along the line he’s changed, though. Between SHIELD barracks, the stint in Avengers tower and SHIELD again, he’s got used to other people around. Now, the idea of a place of his own, with those walls closing in while he sits on the couch eating bad take-out – well, that sounds pretty awful actually.

He’d realised it gradually. He’d quit SHIELD young (fifty is still young, alright) for someone who didn’t die or get horrendously maimed. Most moved into more senior admin or handler positions, but he was crap at paperwork and watching young agents fuck up simple ops he could have done blindfolded – or miss shots he literally had hit blindfolded in the circus, resulting in agent deaths – it wasn’t for him. So he’d left. Phil had helped secure him a job at a gym as trainer and archery instructor, and he’d moved into an apartment.

He lasted three days. After that, he found reasons to be elsewhere after work. At first he house-hopped, dossing over at Jasper’s, crashing FitzSimmons’ domestic bliss, even once or twice trying his luck with Maria’s spare bed, before he ended up pretty much exclusively at Phil’s. It was a day or two shy of three weeks waking up with a bad back before Phil tossed him a key, suggested he try the spare room instead of ‘accidentally’ falling asleep on the couch, and maybe they should split the rent.

A year later, Phil had announced that he was retiring. It surprised Clint at the time, but suddenly he noticed the grey, receding hairline and the wrinkles around his eyes. He was still fit, of course. You couldn’t be a SHIELD agent if you couldn’t pass the fitness tests, even if your role was entirely office-based, but Phil was somehow in his early sixties without Clint noticing. He was forever forgetting the ten-year age difference, ever since they’d moved beyond the handler-agent hierarchy.

In addition to the retirement bombshell – which would have been quite enough – Phil wanted to move. Clint spent the next couple of days in a bit of a funk, really, until Phil came home one day with printouts of properties to view and suddenly it hit him that Phil meant that they should move together.

And that’s how they ended up here. A neat, orderly three bedroom house in a small town an hour’s drive from New York. They have an ample back garden with a fire pit and a barbecue, two bathrooms and a cat that appears to have adopted them.

 

\--

Clint is well aware that everyone thinks they’re a couple. Two older guys, setting up house together in the suburbs? It’s not surprising everyone assumes they’re gay. What does surprise him is how little he minds. He hasn’t really got to know the neighbours yet – they’re just at the wave across the street stage, really, apart from the old couple right across the road – but he’s in no rush to explain the situation. They’d probably find the truth; two straight guys living together to beat loneliness; more disquieting.

 

\--

It’s still dark when Clint sets out for his morning runs at the moment. He’s normally out the door by about half five, and power walks to the park a few blocks away to warm up. By the time he reaches it, the sky is starting to lighten and he begins to jog laps.

The burn in his legs is almost pleasant, as is the knowledge that he won’t have to dodge fireballs from a mad scientist, or taken on an alien army invasion. He can just run, breathing cold air and enjoying the peace of a world still largely asleep.

One more lap, he decides. He’ll push himself this time though – see what he can really do.

Just over five minutes later, he’s finished the lap but possibly accidentally committed suicide at the same time. He doubles over, hands on his knees as he sucks in lungfuls of air, and is incredibly glad that the park is still empty of dog walkers. This doesn’t need an audience.

When he feels a bit more human, he straightens up and stretches his muscles quickly, before setting off at a walk. He shouldn’t have stopped dead like that really. He’s not as young as he used to be; a fact that’s making itself clearer every day.

 

\--

Outside the park, just on the corner of the road, is a small, old-fashioned diner. Clint hasn’t been in yet, but he’s often breathed in the scent of cooking pancakes as he passes. This time, he decides, he’ll give in.

The seating area is warm and stuffy when he enters, but probably only in relation to the chill outside. It’s also quiet. An elderly couple sit at one of the window tables, eating in silence. At the counter, what is presumably a high schooler stands adding numerous sugar packets to a takeaway cup of coffee. That’s it.

“What can I do you for?” asks a cheery voice. Clint turns to see a young woman, dark hair scraped back into a ponytail, smiling at him from behind the till. Her name tag reads “Shawna”.

“I’m not sure,” he replies.

“You’re new here, aren’t you,” she says as a statement.

“Been here a few months,” he admits. “Just never come inside before.” She looks him up and down in a way that ten years ago he might have thought was her checking him out.

“You pass by nearly every day, doncha. I’d recognise those legs anywhere,” she winks at him, over the top, and he grins. Maybe he did still have it.

She passes him a menu and manoeuvres herself out into the table area, picking up a box of napkins and going to fill the holders. By the time she comes back he’s made his choice.

“I’ll have one stack of the blueberry pancakes, with a side of fruit, one ham and cheese omelette and two coffees,” she notes it down busily, passes it to the chef and motions him into a stool.

“It’ll be about a ten minute wait, honey. Take-away, I guess?” He nods. “Should of known a sweetie like you would have someone waiting for him.” She smiles and he doesn’t bother to correct her; technically he does, just not the way she’s thinking. He takes a seat as she bustles away again, clearing the plates of the old couple.

 

\--

Back outside the house, Clint kicks the door with his foot. He does have a key, but it’s hidden away in his ‘emergencies’ pocket (also in that pocket: twenty dollars, a spare SIM card and a set of lockpicks), and he can’t reach it with his hands full. Phil answers the door, forgoing the lecture about caring for their house when he sees the packets in Clint’s arms.

“Honey, I’m home!”

“Very funny,” Phil unloads the coffees and closes the door behind them. “You will insist on trying to convince the neighbours that we’re together.”

“I just don’t bother to correct them,” Clint pulls plates out of the cupboard while Phil pours glasses of orange juice. They move around each other seamlessly, like they’ve been doing this for years. In a way, Clint guesses, they have. “Although if I’m cock-blocking you with Mrs Cooper across the road, just tell me and I’ll set her straight, I swear.”

Mrs Cooper is roughly ninety years old. Phil just shakes his head and finishes laying the table.

 

\--

It's strange how not-strange it is. Their life continues in this domestic pattern until Clint can't really remember what it felt like to wake up every morning with a jolt, having to convince yourself that it was ok, you're still here. Instead he wakes up slowly. He runs, he goes to work, he potters about the house and in the evenings he watches bad TV with Phil. Phil spends his days tending the garden and amassing a truly impressive collection of hobbies: “I'm trying everything I didn't have time for before,” he explains when Clint comes home to catch him trying to learn the oboe. It feels safe. It feels like a home.

“We have a new neighbour,” Phil says one evening, serving up a plate of pasta for Clint. He's taken over cooking duties, partly as he's home all day and partly because it's another of his new hobbies. “She moved in today,” he adds. “I think she's your type.”

“And married with kids, I expect,” Clint's not really paying attention. The tomato sauce on this pasta is amazing; fresh yet creamy with a hint of heat.

“No, single,” Phil joins him at the table and Clint idly wonders when exactly they became people who ate at the table. He remembers years of take-out boxes hovering over knees, but he also remembers that this has been going on since before they moved in here. Maybe its just that they're getting old. Becoming proper adults, or something.

“I spoke to her over the fence. She's a writer and she's just moved here from Arkansas.” Clint grunts. “I said she should pop over on Saturday evening. I've invited the Coopers as well, and a few other people. We can have a barbecue.”

It's quite cheesy and incredibly suburban, but its been a while since Clint had Phil's lime-marinated barbecued chicken, so he nods agreeably around another mouthful.

 

–

Saturday comes round quicker than Clint had expected. Normally he spends his days idly waiting for the weekend when they can hang out and just chill, but this week a rush of new clients at the gym has kept him busy. There has been overtime more than once, and returning home to Phil already stretched out on the couch with _NCIS_.

“Did you remember to get the charcoal?” Clint looks up blearily over his cereal; it's not a run day and he's been awake roughly five minutes.

“Huh?”

“The charcoal? For the barbecue?” Phil is pacing and stressed already and that's not on. Clint grabs a handful of sweater on his next pass by and pulls Phil down into his lap. He has his arms around Phil's waist before his brain clicks back on and – well, this is weird. He hugs slightly, and coughs.

“I got it last night,” he says breezily, patting Phil on the side. Phil takes it for the cue it is and scrambles back to his feet.

“Great,” he replies, hot-footing it out of the room.

 

–

If this were a story, they'd have avoided each other all day to ramp up the tension. As it is, they live in a modest three-bedroom house, and Phil cajoles Clint into helping him get the (almost immaculate) garden shipshape and ready for hosting. The early-morning awkwardness thankfully dissolves amongst the grass clippings and soil, and by the time people start arriving they're back to normal.

“So kind to invite us over,” chirps Mrs Cooper, handing Clint a bottle of wine while she accepts Phil's arm to escort her into the garden. Mr Cooper totters along behind, nodding at Clint. He doesn't think he's ever heard the man speak.

“Hello?”

Their front door is still open, but the woman framed by it is obviously too polite to enter unannounced. Clint whirls around, plastering his best 'host-face' on.

“Come in,” he says. He has no idea who this woman is but he's just invited her into his space. How different from the old days.

“Melanie!” he hears from behind him, as Phil re-enters the house. “Clint, this is Melanie, our new neighbour. Do come in Melanie, no need to stand on ceremony,” Phil bustles her into the house, fixing her a drink and showing her the way to the party. “The Coopers are already here, they're just across the road from us...”

The two of them step into the garden and Clint takes the opportunity to size Melanie up. He has a vague recollection of Phil saying that she was his type, and its not totally untrue. She looks to be about forty, and has long wavy brown hair. She's dressed simply in jeans and a short sleeved shirt; clothes you could fight in; not that that's a thing, any more. She could be his type. She was his type in another life – exactly his type – but the idea of dating his neighbour just strikes him as messy. He steps through the back door into the sunshine, grabbing a beer from the ice bucket as he goes.

“Clint!” Phil's waving him over, so he goes. “I was just telling Melanie about your archery. She says she's always wanted to give it a go – perhaps you could give her a lesson sometime,” Phil smiles and wanders away, and that was the least subtle Clint has ever seen Phil, but somehow Melanie seems not to have noticed.

“Could you?” asks Melanie. Her cheeks are flushed prettily in the late afternoon sun. “I know its silly, but all that Robin Hood, Hawkeye stuff just makes me want to have a go.”

Clint chokes slightly on the mention of his old codename, but she doesn't seem to have made him out. He looks different to how he did back then anyway (greyer, for one) and he was never the most photographed Avenger. On a team that included Tony Stark you had to seek the limelight if you wanted it, and that was never really his thing.

“Uh, sure,” he answers. “I give lessons down at the gym, actually, but we could just set a target up here and have a go one day.”

“That sounds great. I've been thinking about making my next character an archer, actually, so if I could pick your brains about the specifics of it, get all the right lingo, you know...”

The conversation flows after that, but perhaps only because Clint can talk about arrows and flight patterns and wind speed until the cows come home and Melanie seems a reasonably willing ear. He heads away when the Coopers drift over and lights the barbecue.

 

–

It's getting dark now, and turning a little chilly, but no one seems in any hurry to go home. Phil has turned the garden lights on and they look pretty in the encroaching dusk. Clint sighs from his chair, smiling up at Phil when he drops down next to him.

“You should go talk to Melanie,” he says. “She looks lonely.” She doesn't, not particularly, but she is standing on her own looking at a flowerbed and he was meant to be co-hosting. Clint heaves himself out of the seat and wanders over to her.

“Your husband is being remarkably good about making sure I have people to talk to,” she says as he comes to a stop next to her. “I was just admiring your flowers though; if I was bored it's not exactly a long walk home.”

“Phil planted them,” Clint replies, looking down at the African daisies. Wait - “he's not my husband,” he adds. That should maybe have been first.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” apologises Melanie. She lays a hand on his arm, but its friendly rather than predatory. “I just assumed, as it was legal in this state. Marriage isn't for everyone, though – I know that for a fact!” She smiles, but there's an edge to it and Clint doesn’t know her well enough to pry. “I think I am going to get going,” she adds. “The Coopers have invited me along to their church tomorrow and I didn't know how to say no,” the edge fades away as she laughs. “I am _not_ good at early mornings. They may regret the invitation.” This time, Clint laughs with her and escorts her to the door. He pushes a plate of assorted nibbles on her – they're never going to eat everything that's left over, he thinks Phil's been cooking for this all week – and says goodnight. 

As if Melanie's departure is some sort of signal, the other guests begin to leave. For a few minutes the street is bright with voices as people wend their way back to their houses, and then the doors close and the suburban hush falls down. 

 

\--

“We need to talk,” Clint says to Phil. He rushed it out before he could change his mind, and Phil pauses with a half-wrapped plate of sausage rolls. 

“We do? I thought it went well...”

“It did, it was a great party, it's not that we need to talk about.” Clint drops down onto one of the kitchen stools and pats the one next to him. Phil obediently puts down the cling film roll and sits. Clint studies his hands in the dim light for a few seconds before realising the only way to do this is by starting.

“Melanie thought we were together,” he starts. It's easier then, especially as Phil seems to realise he doesn't need interrupting right now. “She called you my husband. I corrected her on who planted the flowers in the borders before I told her we weren't married. Because we kind of are, aren't we? This is –“ he waves a hand around, encompassing the house, their lives, their adopted cat - “everything. Everything I want,” he finishes.

“We're not together,” Phil reminds him.

“But we could be?” asks Clint, and it seems strange, discussing this so calmly. As if their relationship – the bedrock of their entire lives – is no more than what should we have for dinner, or do you want to go to the beach this weekend. “What would really change? I mean -” Clint blushes, “obviously, I know the bedroom stuff. But otherwise?”

_Nothing_ , Phil realises. They've somehow sleepwalked into being an old married couple, complete with the no sex. “Do you even like me, like that?”

Clint squints at him. It's not his most attractive look, but there's a burst of fondness within Phil's chest and he thinks – if Clint's answer is yes – his could be too.

“Maybe? I don't know – I -” Phil lays one hand over Clint's, and even now, even given what their discussing, the touch is reassuring, helping to un-stick his throat. “I think I'd have to try it.” The simple honesty of the statement makes Phil blush, and he's suddenly glad he didn't bother turning on the lights when he came in.

“Go for it then,” he whispers, and Clint edges forward until their breath mingles. Phil can feel Clint right there, but it seems he can't take that final step. Phil leans forward, just slightly. The kiss is nothing more than a dry brush of lips, a simple experiment. Clint's eyes are open when Phil draws back. “Well?”

“Yeah,” says Clint, licking his lips. “Yeah, I can work with that.”

 

–

They're wearing matching rings at their next barbecue, courtesy of the local registry office. No one notices but Melanie, and all she does is flash Clint a smile and a discreet thumbs up.


End file.
